Cinderella's Martini
by imiwayume
Summary: "In many respects, this story is not about me. This story is about her. But hell, you'll probably learn something about me in the process."


_**Cinderella's Martini  
**_

By: _Yumi_

Note/Warning: This is AU, rated M.

Disclaimer (applied for the story in its entirety): I do not own Naruto. It's really a shame, yeah.

* * *

**Chapter 1: **_Peach Crush  
_

I've always liked first person narratives best. Perhaps it is because of the expand of raw emotion that comes with story telling from one person's account, or the limitedness in its scope (because in real life, there is no omniscient voice telling you what happened and why it went wrong) that makes stories of those fashion appealing and dear to me. It is for that reason, partly, that I am writing this story.

I am also writing this story because I want to be able to let you know how this, _this, _came to be. On other occasions, you may find me absurd or strikingly witty, but I present to you now the way I came across this girl.

I say girl, because, in many respects, she is a girl. Her womanhood and femininity is not to be mistaken, however, and any man with a right mind who has seen her and has had a decent conversation with her will inevitably come to the conclusion that Haruno Sakura is a bright and charming female. She is, shall we say, physically and mentally dazzling, and it does not take much effort to recognize this. However, she was still a girl when I first met her.

So really, in many respects, this story is not about me. This story is about _her_. But hell, you'll probably learn something about me in the process.

* * *

I suppose I should first state who I am. My name is Shiranui Genma, a fourth year business major at Konoha University. Although business doesn't particularly hold my interest, sufficient knowledge of it was necessary to run the business my old man is leaving me. Before you get the impression that I'm some big shot CEO-to-be wealthy brat, let me tell you that I'm far from it. For one thing, I'm not wealthy. Our family simply owns a weapon crafting business. We get orders from private collectors, small companies, and the occasional large order for officer trainees. It's a small business, but we do pretty well and we've earn a reputable name for ourselves along the years.

It's just my old man and me. Mom died from complications after giving birth to me. For years after I learned of this truth, I blamed myself. My old man never verbally blamed me, though, he generally didn't say much to me. I felt like I didn't have a dad or a mom. But that was my fault, I believed. I got myself in all sorts of trouble-fights (no shortage of weapons for that), drugs, and alcohol-during my rebellious teenage years because I wanted to waste away. That, or I wanted attention, in whatever form in came. Yeah, I was stupid. It was when I got a nice little gunwound on my upper torso that my old man decided to slap me across the cheek, telling me to shape up. Then, he said he was sorry. I had mistaken his lack of emotional connection with me for hatred when he told me he didn't know how to be a father, especially because I was so precious. I was the gift the woman he loved gave to him, the last one, and I was his world. Yet, he didn't know how to convey it amongst the grief and confusion of losing his wife. I didn't know how relieved I would feel hearing him tell me that he didn't hate me-blame me. It was like my whole life folded in on itself and I was left on a clean slate. We bonded that day, or at least, reached some sort of understanding.

Since then, I revised myself. No more of that shit. I finished high school with a diploma and satisfactory grades that enabled me to get into college. I'm studying hard (well, not _that_ hard) and working as a part time bartender. Now, now, don't get any ideas in your head. I'm working in a bar, but it doesn't mean I'm getting sloshed in alcohol every night. I guess the only good thing that came from the few years of me deteriorating in a life of crime, was that I picked up a keen sense when it came to weapons (and again, it always helps that I'm living and breathing in that area of expertise daily) and alcohol. I don't want to come off cocky (sometimes I do, but not right now…somehow I always manage to sound arrogant regardless of my intentions), but I'm a natural born whiz when it comes to weapons. I know how to craft them, care for them, and how to use them. Just give me any piece of equipment, and even if I've never seen it before, I can figure out how to use it-how to _best_ use it. I can decipher the type of metal, alloy, or stone-easy.

My personal favorite is, no doubt, the senbon. One of the more classical Japanese weapons and often associated with female users. I take no offense in that. Anyone who has seen ways a woman can craftily use a senbon will agree that yielding that as a weapon is no shame. And, I am not a man short on imagination. I can think of many, many ways to treat my opponent to a class of senbon usage in a matter of minutes. It's also handy that the object can be carried around rather innocuously. When it's not tucked in my hair (my hair is shoulder length and can host my faithful partner with some skillful manipulation), you can find it bobbing up and down from the corner of my mouth. Usual senbons are made of metal and alloy-mine is made of platinum. Since my old man found out my preference in weapons, he made a specialized one for me, which is also why this particular piece is particularly valuable to me. In short, it's deadly when it needs to be, and harmless when there's no threat.

Oh right-back on track. My job as a bartender. Well, I guess there isn't much to say. I've got a stomach for it-though I have little idea how my liver's holding up. I don't really drink nowadays except occasionally with pressing or close customers. But I'm good (also no shortage of modesty). I know exactly how much ice, what angle to pour mixes, and what a customer is looking for. All they have to do is telling me what mood they're in, and I can whip up something that will suit their taste. I'm hardly ever wrong.

But I was wrong the night I met her.

It was a Thursday night around 7:00 pm. I start my round at 6:00 p.m. and end at 2:00 a.m. There are usually very little people before 9:00, and even less so because it was not a Friday or Saturday. The only people who come during this time are my usuals-there was Mr. Itake who comes to escape the battlefield that is his home, courtesy of his loving wife and even more living mother. There was Mr. Fujimoto, who says little about himself, but always stays 2 hours and orders whiskey on the rocks. Sitting on a long table is Ms. Ashi, who likes to read a novel during her stay here. Why she chooses a bar instead of a café, especially for the type of activity she likes to engage in during her stay, is still a mystery to me, but it is not in my nature to pry.

Anyway, it was an unsurprisingly slow Thursday evening. I was in the midst of cleaning some glasses when she walked in. I took in her appearance quickly and noticed that I've never seen her before. And it wasn't hard to remember a character like herself. Pink hair, albeit slightly ruffled from the cold November wind, was extremely distinct and framed her pleasant looking face. She had a pale complexion and a shade of green irises not easily forgotten. Long story short, she looked like something straight from some fairytale and I found myself momentarily lost for words.

Quickly, however, I seemed to regained my senses and gave her a professional smile. The pink haired female caught my friendly gesture and walked towards the counter. I noticed that she was sporting heels but still relatively short. She found herself a seat and looked around.

"What can I get you, miss?"

She said nothing at first. Maybe it was one of her first times at bars (she did look relatively young) and didn't know what to get. I didn't miss a beat.

"Perhaps, I can recommend something."

She now looked at me, interested. Slowly, the corners of her pink lips curled upwards. Somehow, I felt satisfied with myself.

"Oh? And what if I don't like it?" Her voice was a little deeper than I expected. Usually girls with her features and body frame had higher pitches. But, it fit her in a way. I don't know how to describe it.

It was my turn to be charming. I flashed a smile. "Then it's on me." Believe it or not, this is the normal answer I give to questions like that, only because I'm more often right than wrong. It's the truth. My boss once told me in between a chuckle that he only lets me get away with it because I'm "so damn good."

So I wasn't disarmed when she looked at me skeptically and raised an eyebrow. She grinned. "Alright, give it your best shot."

Our game began at that moment.

With a small wink, I went to work. My skilled hands poured peach syrup, lime juice and rye whiskey into the blending glass. Adding a dash of Peach Schanpps and Grenadine, I scoped crushed ice into the glass portion of the Boston Shaker before popping the two halves in place. A few good shake and a spin of the vessel (now this is just for show-what? I'm a lady's man, I admit it) I had the drink ready and served in a typical Highball glass.

Smiling, I tucked the drink on top of a napkin and served it to my smiling customer. Her eyes were shining with amusement and…mirth?

I watched her look at the pink drink and swirled the straw several times. Delicately, she brought the plastic closer to her slightly parted lips and paused. As I'm writing this, I feel like a creepy stalker, but for the life of me I didn't know why I was so anxious for her response. I usually don't get worked up like this.

I blinked and suddenly her eyes met mine and she smiled again. I was about to proclaim victory to myself when a soft _tsk_ made my smile falter, but just barely.

"Peach crush…hmm…" the girl hummed breezily. She obviously was no beginner.

"Yes, miss," I offered in affirmation, "It's a particularly popular drink with the younger ladies with its appealing color and light, refreshing taste. Excuse me if I do say so, but I think it's complementing to your lovely hair shade."

Yeah, I'm good like that. Or at least, that was what I thought. I was expecting some sort of bashful blush; instead, she just blinked several times and stared down at the glass that occupied her small hands.

"Hmm…" she twirled the straw several times. Her head tilted slightly and her gaze was thoughtful. "It seems a little sweet for me, though."

Too sweet? Admittedly, the drink was a little sweet for me, parse, but most ladies-young and old-loved this drink. Confused, but remaining professional, I smiled at her. "I'm sorry that it was not to your liking, miss. The drink is on the house."

She smiled in a way that suggested her knowing of something I didn't. "I never said I didn't like it."

"I'll take your word for it, then." I smiled and wondered if I should have offered her a Bellini or Floridita instead. "May I ask for your preference, though?"

Pouting slightly, she tapped her chin and squinted her eyes. "I don't think I have a preference, really. It's more of what kind of mood I'm in."

Ah, one of those. But it was an easy prompt.

"And what mood, if I may ask, that you're in right now? Perhaps I can right the ship."

She grinned. "How about I tell you what drink I want, and you tell me my mood."

So, I was wrong. She wasn't one of those…she was one of _those_. I loved a challenge.

"Sure, miss. What can I get you?"

"A glass of water." Her eyes were serious, and her smile was polite.

Now, don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with asking for a glass or water. It wasn't the first time I've been asked for one and it wasn't the last, but something in the way she said it made me feel uncomfortable. But why? She was just a pretty girl asking for a glass of water, straight from mother nature. Maybe it was just me. I mechanically served her the request, but didn't follow up on our arrangement. Sipping her glass of water, she looked rather content. She didn't beckon me for an answer and I was at a lost for one anyway. Her gaze was still playful, but there was an unmistakeably hard gleam in her emerald orbs. Uncharacteristically, I didn't have something charming or witty to say. I don't think she expected a comment anyway.

Smiling cheerfully, she reached into her purse and placed a ten on the counter faster than I could object. I had meant it being on the house. She hopped off the bar stool and waved to me as she strolled out the bar.

Distractedly, I started to clean the area she was seated. I reached for the peach crush and took a sip of it from the rim. Shrugging to myself, I concluded that I hadn't messed up and added too much syrup. Right before I was about to drain the drink and rinse the glassware, my sudden attention to the weight of the glass made me pause. Carefully, I touched the tip of the straw. It was dry.

I glanced up to the doorway that the girl with the pink hair and green eyes walked out from and back down to the slightly tilted glass in my hand. Just when I thought the spell was broken, it turns out the clock hadn't struck midnight and Cinderella remained wrapped in her fancy clothes, secret smiles, and mysteries.

My routine Thursday night was more particular than it had ever been. She was already one point ahead of the game.

* * *

_tbc_


End file.
